ough
which one involuntarily shudders, and dreams of being in the land of
some Titanic race, whose rocky thunder-bolts are ready to fall upon and
crush the small, fragile creatures who have ventured to their mountain
fastnesses.

After passing through several tunnels, with occasional glimpses of the
scenery between, we at last emerge into the more peaceful plains near
Chiomonti, the white-tipped mountains still soaring high above us. Now
we once more plunge into the bowels of the earth, fitfully emerging into
the bright sunshine, and skimming by splashing mountain streamlets and
picturesque waterfalls, now and again gliding between banks of primroses
and bluebells. At Saibertrand our two small engines are replaced by one
of equal power. Here we have the snow lying in patches on the ground
around us, and a fine rushing mountain stream fed by the many springs
and rivulets from the mountain slopes, the Alpine range on our left
beautifully timbered with fir forests. Now come another series of
sparkling streams, flowing through the alluvial deposits carried down
from the mountains, and so on to Casa No. 69. Passing a rushing mountain
stream, spanned by an iron bridge, we leave the snowy Alps behind us,
only one bold peak appearing at the end of the valley--where a little
town is nested--almost filling up the gap with its wintry summit, and
making a beautiful outline against the blue sky. And now we stop at
Onyx, a station of some importance. Here we find the Hotel Gozie, a
nice-looking building, close to the great Mont Cenis tunnel, and
evidently intended for the convenience of Alpine climbers. Here we are
apparently locked in by a little circle of hills, grand Alpine peaks
forming a crescent on our left. The atmosphere is now much colder, for
we are nearing the snowy hills. Another engine is attached to the train,
and we are soon winding round and between the mountain barrier, then
through a short tunnel, the fir-clad, rocky hills towering up on our
left, great snow-drifts and icicles hanging down the gorges and slopes.
One more short tunnel, and we wind round past Stazione 89 and stop at
Bardonnecha, the line abruptly ascending. Now a little town appears, and
conspicuous in its square is the statue of some eminent citizen,
surmounted by an outspread eagle; and then we penetrate the snowy
mountains; and at last, when expectation is almost spent, we enter the
great Mont Cenis tunnel, at first getting little intermittent flas